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ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


COPYRIGHT     BY     COPELAND    AND     DAY     1895 


PR 
H-ZSl 

■HSH 


853106 


TO  MY  DEAR  MOTHER  AND  FATHER 

THESE  POEMS 

ARE  LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson:    An 

Elegy 

Page  i 

An  Ode  to  Spring 

5 

Tree-worship 

7 

A  Ballad  of  London 

9 

Paris  Day  by  Day 

1 1 

Alfred  Tennyson 

12 

Professor  Minto 

1  + 

On  Mr.  Gladstone's  Retirement 

14 

Omar  Khayydm 

15 

The  Second  Crucifixion 

16 

An  Impression 

17 

Natural  Religion 

17 

Faith  Reborn 

18 

Hesperides 

iS 

Jenny  Dead 

18 

My  Books 

*9 

Mammon 

*9 

Art 

20 

To  a  Poet 

20 

A  New  Year  Letter 

21 

Snatch 

22 

My  Maiden  Vote 

23 

The  Animalcule  on  Man 

25 

Come,  My  Celia 

26 

Time's  Monotone 

27 

COR    CORDIUM 

O  Golden  Day    !    O  Silver  Night  !  31 

Love's  Exchange  31 

To  a  Simple  Housewife  32 

Love's  Wisdom  32 

Home ....  33 

Love's  Landmarks  33 

If,  After  All  ....   !  34 

Spirit  of  Sadness  35 

An  Inscription  36 

Song  36 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON:  AN   ELEGY 
AND   OTHER   POEMS 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON:   AN   ELEGY 

HIGH  on  his  Patmos  of  the  Southern  Seas 
Our  northern  dreamer  sleeps, 
Strange  stars  above  him,  and  above  his  grave 
Strange  leaves  and  wings  their  tropic  splendours  wave, 
While,  far  beneath,  mile  after  shimmering  mile, 
The  great  Pacific,  with  its  faery  deeps, 
Smiles  all  day  long  its  silken  secret  smile. 

Son  of  a  race  nomadic,  finding  still 

Its  home  in  regions  furthest  from  its  home, 

Ranging  untired  the  borders  of  the  world, 

And  resting  but  to  roam; 

Loved  of  his  land,  and  making  all  his  boast 

The  birthright  of  the  blood  from  which  he  came, 

Heir  to  those  lights  that  guard  the  Scottish  coast, 

And  caring  only  for  a  filial  fame; 

Proud,  if  a  poet,  he  was  Scotsman  most, 

And  bore  a  Scottish  name. 

Death,  that  long  sought  our  poet,  finds  at  last, 
Death,  that  pursued  him  over  land  and  sea  : 
Not  his  the  flight  of  fear,  the  heart  aghast 
With  stony  dread  of  immortality, 
He  fled  'not  cowardly;' 

Fled,  as  some  captain,  in  whose  shaping  hand 
Lie  the  momentous  fortunes  of  his  land, 
Sheds  not  vainglorious  blood  upon  the  field, 
But  dares  to  fly  —  yea!  even  dares  to  yield. 

Death!  why  at  last  he  finds  his  treasure  isle, 
And  he  the  pirate  of  its  hidden  hoard; 
Life!  't  was  the  ship  he  sailed  to  seek  it  in, 
And  Death  is  but  the  pilot  come  aboard. 
Methinks  I  see  him  smile  a  boy's  glad  smile 
On  maddened  winds  and  waters,  reefs  unknown, 
As  thunders  in  the  sail  the  dread  typhoon, 
And  in  the  surf  the  shuddering  timbers  groan; 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Horror  ahead,  and  Death  beside  the  wheel: 
Then    -  spreading  stillness  of  the  broad  lagoon, 
And  lap  of  waters  round  the  resting  keel. 

Strange  Isle  of  Voices!  must  we  ask  in  vain, 

In  vain  beseech  and  win  no  answering  word, 

Save  mocking  echoes  of  our  lonely  pain 

From  lonely  hill  and   bird  ? 

Island  beneath  whose  unrelenting  coast, 

As  though  it  never  in  the  sun  had  been, 

The  whole  world's  treasure  lieth  sunk  and  lost, 

Unsunned,  unseen. 

For,  either  sunk  beyond  the  diver's  skill, 

There,  fathoms  deep,  our  gold  is  all  arust, 

Or  in  that  island  it  is  hoarded  still. 

Yea,  some  have  said,  within  thy  dreadful  wall 

There  is  a  folk  that  know  not  death  at  all, 

The  loved  we  lost,  the  lost  we  love,  are  there. 

Will  no  kind  voice  make  answer  to  our  cry, 

Give  to  our  aching  hearts  some  little  trust, 

Show  how  't  is  good  to  live,  but  best  to  die  ? 

Some  voice  that  knows 

Whither  the  dead  man  goes: 

We  hear  his  music  from  the  other  side, 

Maybe  a  little  tapping  on  the  door, 

A  something  called,  a  something  sighed  — 

No  more. 

O  for  some  voice  to  valiantly  declare 

The  best  news  true ! 

Then,  Happy  Island  of  the  Happy  Dead, 

How  gladly  would  we  spread 

Impatient  sail  for  you. 

O  vanished  loveliness  of  flowers  and  faces, 
Treasure  of  hair,  and  great  immortal  eyes, 
Are  there  for  these  no  safe  and  secret  places  ? 
And  is  it  true  that  beauty  never  dies  ? 
Soldiers  and  saints,  haughty  and  lovely  names, 
Women  who  set  the  whole  wide  world  in  flames, 


AN  ELEGY  3 

Poets  who  sang  their  passion  to  the  skies, 

And  lovers  wild  and  wise: 

Fought  they  and  prayed  for  some  poor  flitting  gleam, 

Was  all  they  loved  and  worshipped  but  a  dream  ? 

Is  Love  a  lie  and  fame  indeed  a  breath, 

And  is  there  no  sure  thing  in  life  —  but  death  ? 

Or  may  it  be,  within  that  guarded  shore, 

He  meets  Her  now  whom  I  shall  meet  no  more, 

Till  kind  Death  fold  me  7neath  his  shadowy  wing: 

She  whom  within  my  heart  I  fondly  tell 

That  he  is  dead  whom  once  we  loved  so  well, 

He,  the  immortal  master  whom  I  sing. 

Immortal!  yea,  dare  we  the  word  again, 

If  aught  remaineth  of  our  mortal  day, 

That  which  is  written  —  shall  it  not  remain  ? 

That  which  is  sung,  is  it  not  built  for  aye  ? 

Faces  must  fade,  for  all  their  golden  looks, 

Unless  some  poet  them  eternalise, 

Make  live  those  golden  looks  in  golden  books; 

Death,  soon  or  late,  will  quench  the  brightest  eyes  — 

'T  is  only  what  is  written  never  dies. 

Yea,  memories  that  guard  like  sacred  gold 

Some  sainted  face,  they  also  must  grow  old, 

Pass  and  forget,  and  think  —  or  darest  thou  not!  — 

On  all  the  beauty  that  is  quite  forgot. 

Strange  craft  of  words,  strange  magic  of  the  pen, 
Whereby  the  dead  still  talk  with  living  men; 
Whereby  a  sentence,  in  its  trivial  scope, 
May  centre  all  we  love  and  all  we  hope; 
And  in  a  couplet,  like  a  rosebud  furled, 
Lie  all  the  wistful  wonder  of  the  world. 

Old  are  the  stars,  and  yet  they  still  endure, 
Old  are  the  flowers,  yet  never  fail  the  spring: 
Why  is  the  song  that  is  so  old  so  new, 
Known  and  yet  strange  each  sweet  small  shape  and 
hue  ? 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

How  may  a  poet  thus  for  ever  sing, 

Thus  build  his  climbing  music  sweet  and  sure, 

As  builds  in  stars  and  (lowers  the  Eternal  mind? 

Ali,  Poet,  that  is  yours  to  seek  and  find! 

Y<  i,  jrours  that  magisterial  skill  whereby 

God  put  all  Heaven  in  a  woman's  eye, 

Nature's  own  mighty  and  mysterious  art 

That  knows  to  pack  the  whole  within  the  part: 

The  shell  that  hums  the  music  of  the  sea, 

The  little  word  big  with  Eternity, 

The  cosmic  rhythm  in  microcosmic  things  — 

One  song  the  lark  and  one  the  planet  sings, 

One  kind  heart  beating  warm  in  bird  and  tree  — 

To  hear  it  beat,  who  knew  so  well  as  he  ? 

Virgil  of  prose!  far  distant  is  the  day 

When  at  the  mention  of  your  heartfelt  name 

Shall  shake  the  head,  and  men,  oblivious,  say: 

'  We  know  him  not,  this  master,  nor  his  fame.' 

Not  for  so  swift  forgetfulness  you  wrought, 

Day  upon  day,  with  rapt  fastidious  pen, 

Turning,  like  precious  stones,  with  anxious  thought, 

This  word  and  that  again  and  yet  again, 

Seeking  to  match  its  meaning  with  the  world; 

Nor  to  the  morning  stars  gave  ears  attent, 

That  you,  indeed,  might  ever  dare  to  be 

With  other  praise  than  immortality 

Unworthily  content. 

Not  while  a  boy  still  whistles  on  the  earth, 

Not While  a  single  human  heart  beats  true, 

Not  while  Love  lasts,  and  Honour,  and  the  Brave, 

Has  earth  a  grave, 

O  well-beloved,  for  you! 


AN  ODE  TO  SPRING 

AN  ODE  TO  SPRING     (TO  GRANT 
AND  NELLIE  ALLEN) 

Is  it  the  Spring  ? 

Or  are  the  birds  all  wrong 
That  play  on  flute  and  viol, 

A  thousand  strong, 
In  minstrel  galleries 

Of  the  long  deep  wood, 
Epiphanies 

Of  bloom  and  bud. 

Grave  minstrels  those, 

Of  deep  responsive  chant; 
But  see  how  yonder  goes, 

Dew-drunk,  with  giddy  slant, 
Yon  Shelley-lark, 

And  hark! 
Him  on  the  giddy  brink 

Of  pearly  Heaven 
His  fairy  anvil  clink. 

Or  watch,  in  fancy, 

How  the  brimming  note 
Falls,  like  a  string  of  pearls, 

From  out  his  heavenly  throat; 
Or  like  a  fountain 

In  Hesperides, 
Raining  its  silver  rain, 

In  gleam  and  chime, 
On  backs  of  ivory  girls  — 

Twrice  happy  rhyme! 
Ah,  none  of  these 

May  make  it  plain, 
No  image  we  may  seek 

Shall  match  the  magic  of  his  gurgling  beak. 

And  many  a  silly  thing 
That  hops  and  cheeps, 


ROBER  F  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Am)  perk    hi-  tiny  tail, 

And  sideway  peeps, 
And  Hitters  little  wii 

Seems  iii  his  <  mii  equential  waj 
I  "  tell  of  Spring. 

The  river  warbles  soft  and  runs 

With  fuller  curve  and  sleeker  line, 

Though  on  the  winter-blackened  hedge 
Twigs  of  unbudding  iron  shine, 

And  trampled  still  the  river  sedge. 

And  O  the  Sun  ! 

I  have  no  friend  so  generous  as  this  Sun 
That  comes  to  meet  me  with  his  big  warm  hands. 

And  O  the  Sky! 
There  is  no  maid,  how  true, 

Is  half  so  chaste 
As  the  pure  kiss  of  greening  willow  wands 

Against  the  intense  pale  blue 
Of  this  sweet  boundless  overarching  waste. 

And  see!  —  dear  Heaven,  but  it  is  the  Spring!  — 

See  yonder,  yonder,  by  the  river  there, 
Long  glittering  pearly  fingers  flash 

Upon  the  warm  bright  air: 
Why,  't  is  the  heavenly  palm, 

The  Christian  tree, 
Whose  budding  is  a  psalm 

Of  natural  piety: 
Soft  silver  notches  up  the  smooth  green  stem  — 

Ah,  Spring  must  follow  them, 
It  is  the  Spring! 

O  Spirit  of  Spring, 

Whose  strange  instinctive  art 
Makes  the  bird  sing, 

And  brings  the  bud  again; 
O  in  my  heart 


TREE-WORSHIP  7 

Take  up  thy  heavenly  reign, 
And  from  its  deeps 

Draw  out  the  hidden  flower, 
And  where  it  sleeps, 

Throughout  the  winter  long, 
O  sweet  mysterious  power 

Awake  the  slothful  song! 

February  7,  1893. 

TREE-WORSHIP     (TO  JOHN   LANE) 

Vast  and  mysterious  brother,  ere  was  yet  of  me 
So  much  as  men  may  poise  upon  a  needle's  end, 

Still  shook  with  laughter  all  this  monstrous  might  of  thee, 
And  still  with  haughty  crest  it  called  the  morning  friend. 

Thy  latticed  column  jetted  up  the  bright  blue  air, 
Tall  as  a  mast  it  was,  and  stronger  than  a  tower; 

Three  hundred  winters  had  beheld  thee  mighty  there, 
Before  my  little  life  had  lived  one  little  hour. 

With  rocky  foot  stern-set  like  iron  in  the  land, 

With  leafy  rustling  crest  the  morning  sows  with  pearls, 

Huge  as  a  minster,  half  in  Heaven  men  saw  thee  stand, 
Thy  rugged  girth  the  waists  of  fifty  Eastern  girls. 

Knotted  and  warted,  slabbed  and  armoured  like  the  hide 
Of  tropic  elephant;  unstormable  and  steep 

As  some  grim  fortress  with  a  princess-pearl  inside, 

Where  savage  guardian  faces  beard  the  bastioned  keep: 

So  hard  a  rind,  old  tree,  shielding  so  soft  a  heart  — 
A  woman's  heart  of  tender  little  nestling  leaves; 

Nor  rind  so  hard  but  that  a  touch  so  soft  can  part, 
And  Spring's  first  baby-bud  an  easy  passage  cleaves. 

I  picture  thee  within  with  dainty  satin  sides, 

Where    all    the    long  day  through    the    sleeping    dryad 
dreams, 


s  ROBER  l    LOUIS  S  II  \  ENSON 

But   when  the  moon  bends  low  and   taps  thee  thrice  she 
glidi   , 
Knowing  the  fairy  knock,  to  bask  within  her  beams. 

And  all  the  long  night  through,  for  him  with  eyes  and  cars, 
She  within  thine  arms  and  sings  a  fairy  tunc, 

Till,  startled  with  the  dawn,  she  softly  disappears, 
And  sleeps  and  dreams  again  until  the  rising  moon. 

But  with  the  peep  of  day  great  hands  of  heavenly  birds 
Fill  all  thy  branchy  chambers  with  a  thousand  flutes, 

Anil  with  the  torrid  noon  stroll  up  the  weary  herds, 

To  seek  thy  friendly  shade  and  doze  about  thy  roots  — 

Till  with  the  setting  sun  they  turn  them  once  more  home; 

And,  ere  the  moon  dawns,  for  a  brief  enchanted  space, 
Weary  with  million  miles,  the  sore-spent  star-beams  come, 

And  moths  and  bats  hold  witches'  sabbath  in  the  place. 

And  then  I  picture  thee  some  bloodstained  Holyrood, 
Dread  haunted  palace  of  the  bat  and  owl,  whence  steal, 

Shrouded  all  day,  lost  murdered  spirits  of  the  wood, 

And  fright  young  happy  nests  with  homeless  hoot   and 
squeal. 

Then,  maybe,  dangling  from  thy  gloomy  gallows  boughs, 
A  human    corpse  swings,  mournful,  rattling  bones  and 
chains  — ■ 
His  eighteenth  century  flesh   hath  fattened  nineteenth  cen- 
tury cows  — 
Ghastly  JEoYian  harp  fingered  of  winds  and  rains. 

Poor  Rizpah  comes  to  reap  each  newly-fallen  bone 

That  once  thrilled  soft,  a  little  limb,  within  her  womb; 

And  mark  yon  alchemist,  with  zodiac-spangled  zone, 

Wrenching  the  mandrake  root  that  fattens  in  the  gloom. 

So  rounds  thy  day,  from  maiden  morn  to  haunted  night, 
From  larks  and  sunlit  dreams  to  owl  and  gibbering  ghost; 


A  BALLAD  OF  LONDON  9 

A  catacomb  of  dark,  a  maze  of  living  light, 

To  the  wide  sea  of  air  a  green  and  welcome  coast. 

I  seek  a  god,  old  tree:  accept  my  worship,  thou! 

All  other  gods  have  failed  me  always  in  my  need; 
I  hang  my  votive  song  beneath  thy  temple  bough, 

Unto  thy  strength  I  cry  —  Old  monster,  be  my  creed! 

Give  me  to  clasp  this  earth  with  feeding  roots  like  thine, 
To  mount  yon  heaven  with  such  star-aspiring  head, 

Fill  full  with  sap  and  buds  this  shrunken  life  of  mine, 

And  from  my  boughs  O  might  such  stalwart  sons  be  shed ! 

With  loving  cheek  pressed  close  against  thy  horny  breast, 
I  hear  the  roar  of  sap  mounting  within  thy  veins; 

Tingling  with  buds,  thy  great  hands  open  towards  the  west, 
To  catch  the  sweetheart  winds  that  bring  the  sister  rains. 

O  winds  that  blow  from  out  the  fruitful  mouth  of  God, 
O  rains  that  softly  fall  from  His  all-loving  eyes, 

You  that  bring  buds  to  trees  and  daisies  to  the  sod  — 
O  God's  best  Angel  of  the  Spring,  in  me  arise. 

A  BALLAD  OF  LONDON     (TO 
H.   W.   MASSINGHAM) 

Ah,  London!  London!  our  delight, 
Great  flower  that  opens  but  at  night, 
Great  City  of  the  Midnight  Sun, 
Whose  day  begins  when  day  is  done. 

Lamp  after  lamp  against  the  sky 
Opens  a  sudden  beaming  eye, 
Leaping  alight  on  either  hand, 
The  iron  lilies  of  the  Strand. 

Like  dragonflies,  the  hansoms  hover, 
With  jewelled  eyes,  to  catch  the  lover; 
The  streets  are  full  of  lights  and  loves, 
Soft  gowns,  and  flutter  of  soiled  doves. 


io  ROBBR  I    LOUIS  STE\  BNS<  >\ 

Tlic  human  moths  about  the  light 
Dash  and  cling  clue  in  dazed  delight, 
Ami  hum  and  laugh,  the  world  and  wife, 
Foi  thi    is  London,  this  is  life  I 

Upon  thy  petals  butterflies, 

But  at  thy  root,  some  say,  there  lies 
A  world  of  weeping  trodden  things, 
Poor  worms  that  have  not  eyes  or  wings. 

From  out  corruption  of  their  woe 
Springs  this  bright  (lower  that  charms  us  so, 
Men  die  and  rot  deep  out  of  sight 
To  keep  this  jungle-flower  bright. 

Paris  and  London,  World-Flowers  twain 
Wherewith  the  World-Tree  blooms  again, 
Since  Time  hath  gathered  Babylon, 
And  withered  Rome  still  withers  on. 

Sidon  and  Tyre  were  such  as  ye, 
How  bright  they  shone  upon  the  Tree! 
But  Time  hath  gathered,  both  are  gone, 
And  no  man  sails  to  Babylon. 

Ah,  London!    London!   our  delight, 
For  thee,  too,  the  eternal  night, 
And  Circe  Paris  hath  no  charm 
To  stay  Time's  unrelenting  arm. 

Time  and  his  moths  shall  eat  up  all. 
Your  chiming  towers  proud  and  tall, 
He  shall  most  utterly  abase, 
And  set  a  desert  in  their  place. 


PARIS  DAY  BY  DAY  n 

PARIS  DAY  BY  DAY:    A   FAMILIAR 

EPISTLE      (TO  MRS.    HENRY 

HARLAND*) 

Paris,  half  Angel,  half  Grisette, 
I  would  that  I  were  with  thee  yet, 
Where  the  long  boulevard  at  even 
Stretches  its  starry  lamps  to  heaven, 
And  whispers  from  a  thousand  trees 
Vague  hints  of  the  Hesperides. 

Once  more,  once  more,  my  heart,  to  sit 
With  Aleen's  smile  and  Harry's  wit, 
To  sit  and  sip  the  cloudy  green, 
With  dreamy  hints  of  speech  between; 
Or,  maybe,  flashing  all  intent 
At  call  of  some  stern  argument, 
When  the  New  Woman  fain  would  be, 
Like  the  Old  Male,  her  husband,  free. 
The  prose-man  takes  his  mighty  lyre 
And  talks  like  music  set  on  fire! 

The  while  the  merry  crowd  slips  by 
Glittering  and  glancing  to  the  eye, 
All  happy  lovers  on  their  way 
To  make  a  golden  end  of  day  — 
Ah!   Cafe  truly  called  La  Paix ! 

Or  at  the  pension  I  would  be, 
With  Transatlantic  maidens  three, 
The  same,  I  vow,  who  once  of  old 
Guarded  with  song  the  trees  of  gold . 

O  Lady,  lady,  Vis -a -Vis, 
When  shall  I  cease  to  think  of  thee, 
On  whose  fair  head  the  Golden  Fleece 
Too  soon,  too  soon,  returns  to  Greece  — 

*By  kind  permission  of  the  Editor  of  "  The  Yellow  Book." 


ROBERT   LOUIS  STF.VENSON 

0  why  to  Athens  e'er  depart 

Come  back,  come  back,  and  bring  my  heart! 

Ami  she  who  I    g<  title  silver  grace, 
Si)  wise  of  speech  and  kind  of  face, 
Whose  <  w  iv  wise  and  witty  word 
Fell  shy,  half  blushing  to  be  heard. 

Last,  but  all!   surely  not  least  dear, 
That  blithe  and  buxom  buccaneer, 
Tlf  avenging  goddess  of  her  sex, 
Born  the  base  soul  of  man  to  vex, 
And  wring  from  him  those  tears  and  sighs 
Tortured  from  woman's  heart  and  eyes. 
Ah!   fury,  fascinating,  fair  — 
When  shall  I  cease  to  think  of  her'. 

Paris,  half  Angel,  half  Grisette, 

1  would  that  I  were  with  thee  yet, 
But  London  waits  me,  like  a  wife, — 
London,  the  love  of  my  whole  life. 

Tell  her  not,  Paris,  mercy  me! 
How  I  have  flirted,  dear,  with  thee. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON     (WESTMINSTER, 
OCTOBER   12,  1892) 

Great  man  of  song,  whose  glorious  laurelled  head 
Within  the  lap  of  death  sleeps  well  at  last, 

Down  the  dark  road,  seeking  the  deathless  dead, 
Thy  faithful,  fearless,  shining  soul  hath  passed. 

Fame  blows  his  silver  trumpet  o'er  thy  sleep, 
And  Love  stands  broken  by  thy  lonely  lyre; 

So  pure  the  fire  God  gave  this  clay  to  keep, 
The  clay  must  still  seem  holy  for  the  fire. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  13 

Poor  dupes  of  sense,  we  deem  the  close-shut  eye, 
So  faithful  servant  of  his  golden  tongue, 

Still  holds  the  hoarded  lights  of  earth  and  sky, 
We  deem  the  mouth  still  full  of  sleeping  song. 

We  mourn  as  though  the  great  good  song  he  gave 
Passed  with  the  singer's  own  informing  breath: 

Ah,  golden  book,  for  thee  there  is  no  grave, 
Thine  is  a  rhyme  that  shall  not  taste  of  death. 

Great  wife  of  his  great  heart — 't  is  yours  to  mourn, 
Son  well-beloved,  'tis  yours,  who  loved  him  so: 

But  we!  —  hath  death  one  perfect  page  out-torn 
From  the  great  song  whereby  alone  we  know 

The  splendid  spirit  imperiously  shy,  — 

Husband  to  you  and  father — we  afar 
Hail  poet  of  God,  and  name  as  one  should  cry: 

'  Yonder  a  king,  and  yonder  lo !  a  star  ! ' 

So  great  his  song  we  deem  a  little  while 

That  Song  itself  with  his  great  voice  hath  fled, 

So  grand  the  toga-sweep  of  his  great  style, 
So  vast  the  theme  on  which  his  song  was  fed. 

One  sings  a  flower,  and  one  a  face,  and  one 

Screens  from  the  world  a  corner  choice  and  small, 

Each  toy  its  little  laureate  hath,  but  none 
Sings  of  the  whole:  yea,  only  he  sang  all. 

Poor  little  bards,  so  shameless  in  your  care 
To  snatch  the  mighty  laurel  from  his  head, 

Have  you  no  fear,  dwarfs  in  the  giant's  chair, 
How  men  shall  laugh,  remembering  the  dead  ? 

Great  is  advertisement!   'tis  almost  fate, 

But,  little  mushroom-men,  of  puff-ball  fame, 

Ah,  do  you  dream  to  be  mistaken  great 
And  to  be  really  great  are  just  the  same  ? 


,4  ROBER  r  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

All,  tools,  he  was  a  laureate  ere  one  leaf 

Of  the  great  crown  had  whi  pered  on  his  brow  , 
drilled  lii     ong,  Love  carolled  it,  and  Grief 
Ble  sed  it  with  tears  within  licr  lonely  hou 

Fame  loved  him  well,  because  he  loved  not  Fame, 

Bui   Pea<  e  and  Love,  all  other  things  before, 
A  man  was  he  ere  yet  he  was  a  name, 

His  song  was  much  because  his  love  was  more. 

PROFESSOR  MINTO 

Nature,  that  makes  Professors  all  day  long, 
And,  filling  idle  souls  with  idle  song, 
Turns  out  small  Poets  every  other  minute, 
Made  earth  for  men  —  but  seldom  puts  men  in  it. 

Ah,  Minto,  thou  of  that  minority 
Wert  man  of  men  —  we  had  deep  need  of  thee! 
Had  Heaven  a  deeper?   Did  the  heavenly  Chair 
Of  Earthly  Love  wait  empty  for  thee  there  ? 

March  i,  1893. 

ON   MR.  GLADSTONE'S  RETIREMENT 

Tin:  world  grows  Lilliput,  the  great  men  go; 

If  greatness  be,  it  wears  no  outer  sign; 

No  more  the  signet  of  the  mighty  line- 
Stamps  the  great  brow  for  all  the  world  to  know. 
Shrunken  the  mould  of  manhood  is,  and  lo! 

Fragments  ami  fractions  of  the  old  divine, 

Men  pert  of  brain,  planned  on  a  mean  design, 
Dapper  and  undistinguished  —  such  we  grow. 

No  more  the  leonine  heroic  head, 

The  ruling  arm,  great  heart,  and  kingly  eye; 

No  more  th1    alchemic  tongue  that  turned  poor 
themes 


OMAR  KHAYYAM  15 

Of  statecraft  into  golden-glowing  dreams; 
No  more  a  man  for  man  to  deify: 
Laurel  no  more  —  the  heroic  age  is  dead. 


OMAR  KHAYYAM  (TO  THE  OMAR 
KHAYYAM  CLUB) 

Great  Omar,  here  to-night  we  drain  a  bowl 
Unto  thy  long-since  transmigrated  soul, 
Ours  all  unworthy  in  thy  place  to  sit, 
Ours  still  to  read  in  life's  enchanted  scroll. 

For  us  like  thee  a  little  hour  to  stay, 
For  us  like  thee  a  little  hour  of  play, 

A  little  hour  for  wine  and  love  and  song, 
And  we  too  turn  the  glass  and  take  our  way. 

So  many  years  your  tomb  the  roses  strew, 
Yet  not  one  penny  wiser  we  than  you, 

The  doubts  that  wearied  you  are  with  us  still, 
And,  Heaven  be  thanked!  your  wine  is  with  us  too. 

For,  have  the  years  a  better  message  brought 
To  match  the  simple  wisdom  that  you  taught: 

Love,  wine  and  verse,  and  just  a  little  bread  — 
For  these  to  live  and  count  the  rest  as  nought. 

Therefore,  Great  Omar,  here  our  homage  deep 
We  drain  to  thee,  though  all  too  fast  asleep 

In  Death's  intoxication  art  thou  sunk 
To  know  the  solemn  revels  that  we  keep. 

Oh  had  we,  best-loved  Poet,  but  the  power 
From  our  own  lives  to  pluck  one  golden  hour, 

And  give  it  unto  thee  in  thy  great  need, 
How  would  we  welcome  thee  to  this  bright  bower! 

O  life  that  is  so  warm,  'twas  Omar's  too; 
O  wine  that  is  so  red,  he  drank  of  you: 


ROBERT   I.OUIS  STEVENSON 

Yet  life  and  wine  must  all  be  put  away, 
Ami  we  go  sleep  with  Omar  —  yea,  't  is  true. 

And  when  in  some  great  city  yet  to  be 
Tin.-  sacred  wine  is  spilt  for  you  and  me, 

ro  those  great  fames  that  we  have  yet  to  build, 
We'll  know  as  little  of  it  all  as  he. 

THE  SECOND   CRUCIFIXION 

Loud  mockers  in  the  roaring  street 

Say  Christ  is  crucified  again: 
Twice  pierced  His  gospel-bringing  ; 

Twice  broken  His  great  heart  in  vain. 

I  hear,  and  to  myself  I  smile, 

For  Christ  talks  with  me  all  the  while. 

No  angel  now  to  roll  the  stone 

From  off  His  unawaking  sleep, 
In  vain  shall  Mary  watch  alone, 

In  vain  the  soldiers  vigil  keep. 

Yet  while  they  deem  my  Lord  is  dead 
My  eyes  are  on  His  shining  head. 

Ah!  never  more  shall  Mary  hear 

That  voice  exceeding  sweet  and  low 

Within  the  garden  calling  clear, 

Her  Lord  is  gone,  and  she  must  go. 

Yet  all  the  while  my  Lord  I  meet 
In  every  London  lane  and  street. 

Poor  Lazarus  shall  wait  in  vain, 

And  Bartimaeus  still  go  blind; 
The  healing  hem  shall  ne'er  again 

Be  touched  by  suffering  humankind. 


AN  IMPRESSION  17 

Yet  all  the  while  I  see  them  rest, 
The  poor  and  outcast,  in  His  breast. 

No  more  unto  the  stubborn  heart 

With  gentle  knocking  shall  He  plead, 

No  more  the  mystic  pity  start, 

For  Christ  twice  dead  is  dead  indeed. 

So  in  the  street  I  hear  men  say, 
Yet  Christ  is  with  me  all  the  day. 

AN  IMPRESSION 

The  floating  call  of  the  cuckoo, 

Soft  little  globes  of  bosom-shaped  sound, 

Came  and  went  at  the  window; 

And,  out  in  the  great  green  world, 

Those  maidens  each  morn  the  flowers 

Opened  their  white  little  bodices  wide  to  the  sun: 

And  the  man  sighed  —  sighed  —  in  his  sleep, 

And  the  woman  smiled. 

Then  a  lark  staggered  singing  by 

Up  his  shining  ladder  of  dew, 

And  the  airs  of  dawn  walked  softly  about  the  room, 

Filling  the  morning  sky  with  the  scent  of  the  woman's  hair, 

And    giving,  in    sweet    exchange,  its  hawthorn  and  daisy 

breath: 
And  the  man  awoke  with  a  sob  — 
But  the  woman  dreamed. 


NATURAL  RELIGION 

Up  through  the  mystic  deeps  of  sunny  air 
I  cried  to  God  —  <  O  Father,  art  Thou  there  ? 
Sudden  the  answer,  like  a  flute,  I  heard: 
It  was  an  angel,  though  it  seemed  a  bird. 


»8  ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

1  A  I  III    RKKORN 

♦The  old  gods  pass,1  the  cry  goes  round, 
1  1...'   how  their  temples  strew  the  ground;1 
Nor  mark  we  where,  on  new-fledged  wings, 
Faith,  like  the  phoenix,  so;irs  and  sings. 

HESPERIDES 

Men  say  — beyond  the  western  seas 
The  happy  isles  no  longer  glow, 

No  sailor  sights  Hespcrides, 
All  that  was  long  ago. 

No  longer  in  a  glittering  morn 

Their  misty  meadows  flicker  nigh, 

No  singing  with  the  spray  is  borne, 
All  that  is  long  gone  by. 

To-day  upon  the  golden  beach 

No  gold-haired  guardian  maidens  stand, 

No  apples  ripen  out  of  reach, 
And  none  are  mad  to  land. 

The  merchant-men,  't  is  they  say  so, 
That  trade  across  the  western  seas, 

In  hurried  transit  to  and  fro, 
About  Hesperides. 

But,  Reader,  not  as  these  thou  art, 
So  loose  thy  shallop  from  its  hold, 

And,  trusting  to  the  ancient  chart, 
Thou' It  make  them  as  of  old. 


JENNY  DEAD 

Like  a  flower  in  the  frost, 
Sweet  Jenny  lies, 


MY  BOOKS  I9 

With  her  frail  hands  calmly  crossed, 
And  close-shut  eyes. 

Bring  a  candle,  for  the  room 

Is  dark  and  cold, 
Antechamber  of  the  tomb  — 

O  grief  untold! 

Like  a  snow-drift  is  her  bed, 

Dinted  the  snow, 
Faint  frozen  lines  from  foot  to  head,  — 

She  lies  below. 

Turn  from  off  her  shrouded  face 

The  frigid  sheet 
Death  hath  doubled  all  her  grace  — 

O  Jenny,  sweet ! 

MY  BOOKS 

What  are  my  books  ?  —  My  friends,  my  loves, 
My  church,  my  tavern,  and  my  only  wealth; 

My  garden:  yea,  my  flowers,  my  bees,  my  doves; 
My  only  doctors  —  and  my  only  health. 

MAMMON     (FOR  MR.    G.   F.    WATTS' S 
PICTURE) 

Mammon  is  this,  of  murder  and  of  gold, 
To-day,  to-morrow,  and  ever  from  of  old, 
Th'  Almighty  God,  and  King  of  every  land. 
Man  'neath  his  foot,  and  woman  'neath  his  hand, 
Kneel  prostrate:  he,  'tis  meant  to  symbolise, 
Steals  our  strong  men  and  our  sweet  women  buys. 

O !   rather  grind  me  down  into  the  dust 
Than  choose  me  for  the  vessel  of  thy  lust. 


zo  ROBERT    1  "I   I-    -II  VKNSON 

AR  r 

Art  is  a  gipsy, 

Fickle  as  fair, 
Good  to  kiss  and  flirt  with, 

But  marry  —  if  you  dare! 

TO  A  POET  (TO  EDMUND  GOSSE) 

Still  towards  the  steep  Parnassian  way 

The  moon-led  pilgrims  wend, 
Ah,  who  of  all  that  start  to-day 

Shall  ever  reach  the  end  ? 

Year  after  year  a  dream-fed  band 

That  scorn  the  vales  below, 
And  scorn  the  fatness  of  the  land 

To  win  those  heights  of  snow,  — 

Leave  barns  and  kine  and  flocks  behind, 

And  count  their  fortune  fair, 
If  they  a  dozen  leaves  may  bind 

Of  laurel  in  their  hair. 

Like  us,  dear  Poet,  once  you  trod 

That  sweet  moon-smitten  way, 
With  mouth  of  silver  sought  the  god 

All  night  and  all  the  day; 

Sought  singing,  till  in  rosy  fire 

The  white  Apollo  came, 
And  touched  your  brow,  and  wreathed  your  lyre, 

And  named  you  by  his  name; 

And  led  you,  loving,  by  the  hand 
To  those  grave  laurelled  bowers, 

Where  keep  your  high  immortal  band 
Your  high  immortal  hours. 


A  NEW  YEAR  LETTER  n 

Strait  was  the  way,  thorn-set  and  long  — 

Ah,  tell  us,  shining  there, 
Is  fame  as  wonderful  as  song  ?  — 

And  laurels  in  your  hair! 

A   NEW  YEAR  LETTER  :   TO 

TWO  FRIENDS  MARRIED  IN 

THE  NEW  YEAR     (TO  MR. 

AND   MRS.   WELCH) 

Another  year  to  its  last  day, 
Like  a  lost  sovereign,  runaway, 
Tips  down  the  gloomy  grid  of  time: 
In  vain  to  holloa,  '  Stop  it !  hey !  — ' 
A  cab-horse  that  has  taken  fright, 
Be  you  a  policeman,  stop  you  may; 
But  not  a  sovereign  mad  with  glee 
That  scampers  to  the  grid,  perdie, 
And  not  a  year  that 's  taken  flight; 
To  both  'tis  just  a  grim  good  night. 

But  no !  the  imagery,  say  you, 
Is  wondrous  witty  —  but  not  true; 
For  the  old  year  that  last  night  went 
Has  not  been  so  much  lost  as  spent: 
You  gave  it  in  exchange  to  Death 
For  just  twelve  months  of  happy  breath. 

It  was  a  ticket  to  admit 
Two  happy  people  close  to  sit  — 
A  '  Season '  ticket,  one  might  say, 
At  Time's  eternal  passion  play. 

O  magic  overture  of  Spring, 

O  Summer  like  an  Eastern  King, 

O  Autumn,  splendid  widowed  Queen, 

O  Winter,  alabaster  tomb 

Where  lie  the  regal  twain  serene, 

Gone  to  their  yearly  doom. 


22  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


* 


Hut  all  you  bought  with  that  spent  year, 
Ah,  friends,  it  was  as  nothing,  was  it  ? 
Nothing  at  all  to  hold  compare 
With  what  you  buy  with  this  New  Year. 

A  home!  ah  me,  you  could  not  buy 

Another  half  so  precious  toy, 

With  all  the  other  years  to  come 

As  that  grown-up  doll's  house  — a  home. 

0  wine  upon  its  threshold  stone, 
And  horse-shoes  on  the  lintel  of  it, 
And  happy  hearts  to  keep  it  warm, 
And  God  Himself  to  "love  it! 

Dear  little  nest,  built  snug  on  bough 
Within  the  World-Tree's  mighty  arms, 

1  would  I  knew  a  spell  that  charms 
Eternal  safety  from  the  storm; 

To  give  you  always  stars  above, 
And  always  roses  on  the  bough  — 
But  then  the  Tree's  own  root  is  Love, 
Love,  love,  all  love,  I  vow. 

New  Year,  1893. 


SNATCH 


From  tavern  to  tavern 
Youth  passes  along, 

With  an  armful  of  girl 
And  a  heart  full  of  song. 

From  flower  to  flower 
The  butterfly  sips, 

O  passionate  limbs 

And  importunate  lips! 


MY  MAIDEN  VOTE  23 

From  candle  to  candle 

The  moth  loves  to  fly, 
O  sweet,  sweet,  to  burn! 

And  still  sweeter  to  die! 


MY  MAIDEN  VOTE     (TO 
JOHN  FRASER) 

There,  in  my  mind's  eye,  pure  it  lay, 

My  lodger's  vote!  'T  was  mine  to-day. 

It  seemed  a  sort  of  maidenhood, 

My  little  power  for  public  good,  — 

Oh  keep  it  uncorrupted,  pray! 

And,  when  it  must  be  given  away, 

See  it  be  given  with  a  sense 

Of  most  uncanvassed  innocence. 

Alas,  —  but  few  there  be  that  know  't  — 

How  grave  a  thing  it  is  to  vote! 

For  most  men's  votes  are  given,  I  hear, 

Either  for  rhetoric  or  —  beer. 

A  young  man's  vote  —  O  fair  estate! 
Of  the  great  tree  electorate 
A  living  leaf,  of  this  great  sea 
A  motive  wave  of  empire  I, 
On  this  stupendous  wheel  —  a  fly. 
O  maiden  vote,  how  pure  must  be 
The  party  that  is  worthy  thee ! 
And  thereupon  my  mind  began 
That  perfect  government  to  plan, 
The  high  millennium  of  man. 

Then  in  my  dream  I  saw  arise 

An  England,  ah!   so  fair  and  wise, 

An  England  generously  great, 

No  selfish  island,  but  a  state 

Upon  the  world's  bright  forehead  worn, 

A  mighty  star  of  mighty  morn. 


24  ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON 

And  statesmen  in  that  dream  became 
No  tricksters  of  the  petty  aim, 
Mere  speculators  in  the  rise 
Of  programmes  and  of  party  cries, 
Expert  in  all  those  turns  and  tricks 
That  make  this  senate-house  of  ours, 
Westminster,  with  its  lordly  towers, 
The  stock-exchange  of  politics. 
But  that  ideal  Parliament 
Did  all  it  said,  said  all  it  meant, 
And  every  Minister  of  State 
Was  guile-less  —  as  a  candidate. 

Statesmen  no  more  the  tinker's  way 
Mended  and  patched  from  day  to  day, 
Content  with  piecing  part  with  part, 
But  took  the  mighty  problem  whole, 
Beginning  with  the  human  heart: 
For  noble  rulers  make  in  vain 
Unselfish  laws  for  selfish  men, 
And  give  the  whole  wide  world  its  vote, 
But  who  is  going  to  give  it  soul  ? 

And  then  I  dreamed  had  come  to  reign 
True  peace  within  our  land  again, 
Not  peace  that  rots  the  soul  with  ease, 
Or  those  ignoble  '  rivalries 
Of  peace  '  more  murderous  than  war, 
But  just  the  simple  peasant  peace 
The  weary  world  is  waiting  for. 
With  simple  food  and  simple  wear 
Go  lots  of  love  and  little  care, 
And  joy  is  saved  from  over-sweet, 
By  struggle  not  too  hard  to  bear. 
So  dreamed  I  on  from  dream  to  dream, 
Till,  slow  returning  to  my  theme, 
Upon  my  vote  I  looked  again  — 
To  whom  was  I  to  give  it  then  ? 
That  uncorrupted  maidenhood, 


THE  ANIMALCULE  ON  MAN  25 

My  little  power  for  public  good. 
What  party  was  there  that  I  knew 
That  I  might  dare  entrust  it  to, 
A  perfect  party  fair  and  square  — 
My  House  of  Commons  in  the  air  ? 

Though  called  by  many  different  names, 
Each  one  professed  the  noblest  aims; 
Should  all  be  right,  'twas  logical 
That  I  should  give  my  vote  to  all ! 
And  then,  of  parties  old  and  new 
Which  one,  if  only  one,  were  true  ? 

The  divination  passed  my  skill,  — 
My  maiden  vote  is  maiden  still. 

THE  ANIMALCULE  ON   MAN. 

An  animalcule  in  my  blood 

Rose  up  against  me  as  I  dreamed, 

He  was  so  tiny  as  he  stood, 

You  had  not  heard  him,  though  he  screamed. 

He  cried  '  There  is  no  Man!  ' 

And  thumped  the  table  with  his  fist, 

Then  died  — his  day  was  scarce  a  span,  — 
The  microscopic  atheist. 

Yet  all  the  while  his  little  soul 

Within  what  he  denied  did  live,  — 

Poor  part,  how  could  he  know  the  whole  ? 
And  yet  he  was  so  positive! 

And  all  the  while  he  thus  blasphemed 
My  (solar)  system  went  its  round, 

My  heart  beat  on,  my  head  still  dreamed,  — 
But  my  poor  atheist  was  drowned. 


»6  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


(  OME,   MY  CELIA 

Comi,  my  Celia,  let  us  prove, 
While  we  may,  how  wise  is  love  — 
Love  gmwn  old  and  grey  with  years, 
Love  whose  blood  is  thinned  with  tears. 

Philosophic  1<>\  er  I, 
Broke  my  heart,  its  love  run  dry, 
And  I  warble  passion's  words 
But  to  hear  them  sing  like  birds. 

When  the  lightning  struck  my  side, 
Love  shrieked  and  fur  ever  died, 
Leaving  nought  of  him   behind 
But  these  playthings  of  the  mind. 

Now  the  real  play  is  over 
I  can  only  act  a  lover, 
Now  the  mimic  play  begins 
With  its  puppet  joys  and  sins. 

When  the  heart  no  longer  feels, 
And  the  blood  with  caution  steals, 
Then,  ah!  then  —  my  heart,  forgive!  — 
Then  we  dare  begin  to  live. 

Dipped  in  Stygian  waves  of  pain, 
We  can  never  feel  again; 
Time  may  hurl  his  deadliest  darts, 
Love  may  practice  all  his  arts; 

Like  some  Balder,  lo!  we  stand 
Safe  'mid  hurtling  spear  and  brand, 
Only  Death  —  ah!  sweet  Death,  throw!- 
Holds  the  fatal  mistletoe. 

Let  the  young  unconquered  soul 
Love  the  unit  as  the  whole, 


TIME'S  MONOTONE  27 

Let  the  young  uncheated  eye 
Love  the  face  fore-doomed  to  die: 

But,  my  Celia,  not  for  us 
Pleasures  half  so  hazardous; 
Let  us  set  our  hearts  on  play, 
'T  is,  alas,  the  only  way  — 

Make  of  life  the  jest  it  is, 
Laugh  and  fool  and  (maybe!)  kiss, 
Never  for  a  moment,  dear, 
Love  so  well  to  risk  a  fear. 

Is  not  this,  my  Celia,  say, 

The  only  wise  —  and  weary  —  way  ? 

TIME'S  MONOTONE 

Autumn  and  Winter, 

Summer  and  Spring  — 
Hath  Time  no  other  song  to  sing  ? 
Weary  we  grow  of  the  changeless  tune  — 

June  —  December, 

December  —  June ! 

Time,  like  a  bird,  hath  but  one  song, 
One  way  to  build,  like  a  bird  hath  he; 

Thus  hath  he  built  so  long,  so  long, 
Thus  hath  he  suns —  Ah  me  ! 


*& 


Time,  like  a  spider,  knows  be  sure, 

One  only  wile,  though  he  seems  so  wise: 

Death  is  his  web,  and  Love  his  lure, 
And  you  and  I  his  flies. 

«  Love !  '  he  sings 
In  the  morning  clear, 

'Love!     Love!     Love!'  — 
And  you  never  hear 


ROM!  RT   I.OUIS  STEVENSON 

I I  ow  under  his  breath 

I I I  whispers  '  Dc.itli ! 
Death!     Death!1 

Yit  Time  —  'tis  the  strangest  thing  of  all  — 
Knoweth  not  th(  of  the  words  he  saith, 

Eternity  taught  him  his  parrot-call 
Of  «  Love  and  Death/ 

Year  after  year  doth  the  old  man  climb 
The  mountainous  knees  of  Eternity, 

Hut  Eternity  telleth  nothing  to  Time  — 
It  may  not  be. 


COR  CORDIUM 


O  GOLDEN  DAY!     O  SILVER  NIGHT! 

O  GOLDEN  day!      O  silver  night! 

That  brought  my  own  true  love  at  last, 
Ah,  wilt  thou  drop  from  out  our  sight, 

And  drown  within  the  past  ? 

One  wave,  no  more,  in  life's  wide  sea, 
One  little  nameless  crest  of  foam, 

The  day  that  gave  her  all  to  me 
And  brought  us  to  our  home. 

Nay,  rather  as  the  morning  grows 
In  flush,  and  gleam,  and  kingly  ray, 

While  up  the  heaven  the  sun-god  goes, 
So  shall  ascend  our  day. 

And  when  at  last  the  long  night  nears, 
And  love  grows  angel  in  the  gloam, 

Nay,  sweetheart,  what  of  fears  and  tears, 
The  stars  shall  see  us  home. 


LOVE'S  EXCHANGE 

Simple  am  I,  I  care  no  whit 

For  pelf  or  place, 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  sit 

And  watch  Dulcinea's  face; 
To  mark,  the  lights  and  shadows  flit 
Across  the  silver  moon  of  it. 

I  have  no  other  merchandise, 

No  stocks  or  shares, 
No  other  gold  but  just  what  lies 

In  those  deep  eyes  of  hers; 
And,  sure,  if  all  the  world  were  wise, 
It  too  would  bank  within  her  eyes. 


32  ROBERT   LOUIS  STEVENSON 

I  buy  up  :ill  her  smiles  all  day, 

With  all  my  love, 
And  sell  them  hack,  cost-price,  or,  say, 

A  kiss  or  two  above; 
It  is  a  speculation  fine, 
The  profit  must  be  always  mine. 

The  world  has  many  things,  't  is  true, 

To  fill  its  time, 
Far  more  important  things  to  do 

Than  making  Love  and  rhyme; 
Vet,  if  it  asked  me  to  advise, 
I'd  say  —  buy  up  Dulcinea's  eyes! 


TO  A   SIMPLE   HOUSEWIFE 

Who  dough  shall  knead  as  for  God's  sake 
Shall  fill  it  with  celestial  leaven, 

And  every  loaf  that  she  shall  bake 
Be  eaten  of  the  Blest  in  Heaven. 


LOVE'S  WISDOM 

Sometimes  my  idle  heart  would  roam 
Far  from  its  quiet  happy  nest, 

To  seek  some  other  newer  home, 
Some  unaccustomed  Best: 

But  ere  it  spreads  its  foolish  wings, 
'  Heart,  stay  at  home,  be  wise!'   Love's  wisdom  sings. 

Sometimes  my  idle  heart  would  sail 
From  out  its  quiet  sheltered  bay, 

To  tempt  a  less  pacific  gale, 
And  oceans  far  away: 

But  ere  it  shakes  its  foolish  wings, 
'  Heart,  stay  at  home,  be  wise! '   Love's  wisdom  sings. 


HOME     ...  33 

Sometimes  my  idle  heart  would  fly, 
Mothlike,  to  reach  some  shining  sin, 

It  seems  so  sweet  to  burn  and  die 
That  wondrous  light  within: 

But  ere  it  burns  its  foolish  wings, 
«  Heart,  stay  at  home,  be  wise! '   Love's  wisdom  sings. 

HOME     .      .      . 

'We're  going  home! '    I  heard  two  lovers  say, 

They  kissed  their  friends  and  bade  them  bright  good- 
byes; 
I  hid  the  deadly  hunger  in  my  eyes, 

And,  lest  I  might  have  killed  them,  turned  away. 

Ah,  love,  we  too  once  gambolled  home  as  they, 

Home  from  the  town  with  such  fair  merchandise, — 
Wine  and  great  grapes  —  the  happy  lover  buys: 

A  little  cosy  feast  to  crown  the  day. 

Yes!  we  had  once  a  heaven  we  called  a  home, 
Its  empty  rooms  still  haunt  me  like  thine  eyes, 
When  the  last  sunset  softly  faded  there; 

Each  day  I  tread  each  empty  haunted  room, 
And  now  and  then  a  little  baby  cries, 
Or  laughs  a  lovely  laughter  worse  to  bear. 

LOVE'S  LANDMARKS 

The  woods  we  used  to  walk,  my  love, 

Are  woods  no  more, 
But  '  villas  '  now  with  sounding  names  — 

All  name  and  door. 

The  pond,  where,  early  on  in  March, 

The  yellow  cup 
Of  water-lilies  made  us  glad, 

Is  now  filled  up. 


34  ROBER  r   LOI  [S  STEV]  NSON 

But  all!  what  if  they  till  or  fell 

I  ich  pond,  each  tree, 
What  matters  it  to  day,  my  love, 

I  o  me  —  to  thee  ? 

The  jerry-builder  may  consume, 

A  greedy  moth, 
God's  mantle  of  the  living  green, 

I  feel  no  wrath; 

I  it  up  the  beauty  of  the  world, 

Ami  gorge  his  fill 
On  mead  and  winding  country  lane, 

And  grassy  hill. 

I  only  laugh,  for  now  of  these 

I  have  no  care, 
Now  that  to  me  the  fair  is  foul, 

And  foul  as  fair. 

IF,  AFTER  ALL  .    .    .    ! 

This  life  I  squander,  hating  the  long  days 

That  will  not  bring  me  either  Rest  or  Thee, 

This  health  I  hack  and  ravage  as  with  knives, 

These  nerves  I  fain  would  shatter,  and  this  heart 

I  fain  would  break  —  this  heart  that,  traitor-like, 

Beats  on  with  foolish  and  elastic  beat : 

If,  after  all,  this  life  I  waste  and  kill 

Should  still  be  thine,  may  still  be  lived  for  thee! 

And  this  the  dreadful  trial  of  my  love, 

This  silence  and  this  blank  that  makes  me  mad, 

That  I  be  man  to-day  of  all  the  days 

My  one  poor  hope  of  meeting  thee  again  — 

If  Death  be  Love,  and  God's  great  purpose  kind 

O,  love,  if  some  day  on  the  heavenly  stair 
A  wild  ecstatic  moment  we  should  stand, 


SPIRIT  OF  SADNESS  35 

And  I,  all  hungry  for  your  eyes  and  hair, 
Should  meet  instead  your  great  accusing  gaze, 
And  hear,  instead  of  welcome  into  Heaven: 
'Ah!  hadst  thou  but  been  true!   but  manfully 
Borne  the  high  pangs  that  all  high  souls  must  bear, 
Nor  fled  to  low  nepenthes  for  your  pain! 
Hadst  said —  "Is  she  not  here  ?  more  reason  then 
To  live  as  though  still  guarded  by  her  eyes, 
Cleaner  my  thought,  and  purer  be  my  deed; 
True  will  I  be,  though  God  himself  be  false!  "  ' 

O  hadst  thou  thus  been  man,  to-day  had  we 
Walked  on  together  undivided  now  — 
But  now  a  thousand  flaming  years  must  pass, 
And  all  the  trial  be  gone  o'er  again. 

SPIRIT  OF  SADNESS 

She  loved  the  Autumn,  I  the  Spring, 
Sad  all  the  songs  she  loved  to  sing; 
And  in  her  face  was  strangely  set 
Some  great  inherited  regret. 

Some  look  in  all  things  made  hei  sigh, 
Yea!   sad  to  her  the  morning  sky: 
1  So  sad!   so  sad  its  beauty  seems  '  — 
I  hear  her  say  it  still  in  dreams. 

But  when  the  day  grew  grey  and  old, 
And  rising  stars  shone  strange  and  cold, 
Then  only  in  her  face  I  saw 
A  mystic  glee,  a  joyous  awe. 

Spirit  of  Sadness,  in  the  spheres 
Is  there  an  end  of  mortal  tears  ? 
Or  is  there  still  in  those  great  eyes 
That  look  of  lonely  hills  and  skies  ? 


36  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

AN    INSCRIPTION 

Precious  the  box  that  Mary  brake 
Of  spikenard  for  her  Master's  sake, 
But  all!   it  held  nought  half  so  dear 
As  the  sweet  dust  that  whitens  here. 
The  greater  wonder  who  shall  say: 
To  make  so  white  a  soul  of  clay, 
From  clay  to  win  a  face  so  fair, 
Those  strange  great  eyes,  that  sunlit  hair 
A-ripple  o'er  her  witty  brain, — 
Or  turn  all  back  to  dust  again. 

Who  knows —  but,  in  some  happy  hour, 
The  God  whose  strange  alchemic  power 
Wrought  her  of  dust,  again  may  turn 
To  woman  this  immortal  urn. 


SONG 

She  's  somewhere  in  the  sunlight  strong 
Her  tears  are  in  the  falling  rain, 

She  calls  me  in  the  wind's  soft  song, 
And  with  the  flowers  she  comes  again. 

Yon  bird  is  but  her  messenger, 
The  moon  is  but  her  silver  car; 

Yea!  sun  and  moon  are  sent  by  her, 
And  every  wistful  waiting  star. 


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